She is quiet, the seconds pass, then she asks one question. "When?"
The single word is enough to ignite sheer hatred. Ihateher. I hate that she arranges her life around men. That's how we ended up at God's Redeemers, because she had fallen in love with a man who was a member. She changed her entire life to be with him, and he sided with the church when push came to shove. Now she's with the pot farmer, and instead of investing in her son, instead of spending time with him, she's handing him a phone and freedom and acting shocked when he acts out. I can do better than her.
"Now," I bark. "Have him ready for me."
My hand is shaking so badly I can barely press the button to end the call. What did I just do? How will this work?
Travis can sleep on the couch at Shelby's house until the main house is ready. It's summer, so we don't have to worry about school.
My fingers shake as I send a text to Jerry, the one and only handyman I know. He's also apparently the only handyman most people know, and he isn't available for three weeks.
I search the internet for handyman services, and come upon one in the nearby town of Brighton.
"Vale Handyman Services." A pleasant sounding woman answers the phone.
I tell her what I need and where I live, and she tells me she can fit me in three days from now.
"Perfect," I answer, picking my purse up from off the floor and going toward my car.
"My son Connor will be there at eight a.m. on Wednesday," she confirms. We hang up and I get on the road.
I stop only for gas and something quick from the convenience store. It's a five-hour drive to my mom's house, two down to Phoenix and three more on the I-10.
I call Shelby when I get on the road and explain what's going on. Her only response is to tell me she'll wash the extra set of sheets because they haven't been used in so long. I wish I could hug her, and when I tell her that she says she'll remind me later when I return with Travis.
I call Wyatt as I'm passing Black Canyon City. The name is a misnomer. It is not a city, not by a long shot. It does, however, have a little restaurant right off the highway that's famous for its pies.
Wyatt doesn't answer, so I leave him a message. I tell him only that I'm headed to a town outside Phoenix to get something and I'll be back later today. I don't feel like launching into the story on voice mail.
By the time I pull up to my mom's small house, I'm sick of driving. I park in the short driveway and get out. The citrus trees in the front yard burst with fragrant blooms, and from those blooms grow colorful fruit that won't be ready until winter. I drove down to visit last Christmas, and my mom complained about all the fruit the trees were dropping onto her lawn. I thought about picking a rotting orange off the ground and tossing it at her.
Today, if there was rotting fruit on the ground, I'd definitely make good on that thought.
The front door opens before I can knock. Henri stands there, one hand curled around the doorframe. He is handsome in that classic French way, his salt and pepper hair wavy and tucked behind his ears, his face displaying a permanently vague look of bemusement. He is tall and thin, and he wears clothes expensive enough that they fit well. He looks nothing like a pot farmer should look, though I'm willing to admit I'm typecasting the career choice. My mother once told me Henri recognized a lucrative business opportunity and took it, but he doesn't partake in what he grows.
Henri nods his greeting. He dropped the compulsion to kiss cheeks quickly after he came to the States twenty years ago and had his fair share of awkward introductions.
I step inside at the same time my mom comes around the corner. She still wears long skirts, but this time it's her choice, and instead of being made of sturdy, stiff fabrics, they are chiffon and jersey. Her hair is shoulder-length, the same color as mine. I look like her, but that's where our similarities end. Thank God.
"You look nice," my mom says, eyeing the pink tips but keeping quiet. She knows better than to criticize me. She's dating a pot farmer.
"Thank you." I smile politely. The conversation stalls after that. I have nothing to say to this woman. Or, at least, nothing to say to her that would serve any real purpose, other than airing all my grievances, and what's the point of that right now? I'm here to collect Travis.
"Do you need money?" my mom asks.
I shake my head. I wouldn't take her money even if I did. I don't have a lot, but Sawyer's investment in Wildflower allowed me to stop using my personal funds on the ranch, and I have enough to support me and Travis until it turns a profit.
"Travis and I will be fine, but thank you for offering."
Henri slips an arm around her lower back, and she leans into him, just slightly. In a low voice, she says, "Are you sure you're ready for this?" The care and concern in her eyes serves only to anger me.
"Yes," I grit out.
She lifts her palms so they face me. "Okay, okay. I just remember you at fifteen, and it's not a walk in the park. Adolescence is difficult."
I swallow. "I spent the first half of my adolescence in a cult."
"Church," she corrects me quickly. She refuses to admit it went far beyond the confines of an everyday religious institution.
